


As Good Luck Would Have It (And Prophecies are Quite the Help)

by memelessness



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Professors, Anathema and Newt, And I'm unsure if I want it back, Except their relationship is more developed, Good Omens has consumed my life, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Multi, because they deserve better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-03 04:03:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19455955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memelessness/pseuds/memelessness
Summary: After being cast out from their respective offices, Aziraphale and Crowley took up a career as professors in a local university.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An AU post abotchalypse where Adam and the Them settled everything without help and the whole world just forgot about that Saturday.

Anathema woke up early, rearranging her many pendants and curios in a neat arrangement upon her desk. Once she was finally pleased with her work, she thumbed through a stack of papers (she had received the papers over the summer, prompting her to immediately enroll into classes. She kept it in a neat binder, every paper bound in plastic page protectors), examining the prophecies of her first semester. She was a professional decedent, after all. There were a few things that had yet to make sense. “the sir whom weareth black spectacles to hideth his s'rpentine behold” and “the sir whom school wit from forgotten stores.” She’d figured the latter had been a History of Literature class and took a gamble with the rest. Surely Agnes knew what she was doing, and Anathema wouldn’t be letting her down.

She looked over her schedule. Today starts with her Literature class, followed by Natural Sciences. Tomorrow would be Algebra and Introduction to Theater (She’d checked all teachers on one of those “RateMyTeacher” sites beforehand as insurance. Two of them were rated 5 stars with only one review by an A.J. Ophidian. This seemed odd since supposedly this was both professors’ first semester at Oxford. She considered maybe they’d taught at other campuses before). She felt proud of her class plan, despite not having determined her end-goal. Agnes just told her to attend; she can figure out her major later. Quickly, she double-checked her textbooks (She was a new student, after all, and didn’t realize she should probably wait to purchase the dangerously expensive books) and left her apartment, placing everything she needed into the basket of her bike.

She’d practiced the ride a few days ago. Oxford had been an easy 45-minute trip on a slow day, and class wasn’t for another hour-and-a-half. Agnes hadn’t predicted any trouble for the next two years, so she was sure to make it in time. 

Or rather that was what she thought until a black car tore through the streets, blasting Fat Bottom Girls by Queen. She didn’t fall (she was way too experienced a driver for that) but she did have to stop to catch her breath, watching as the vehicle disappeared just as fast as it had arrived.  
Anathema got to campus in good time, with half an hour left before classes officially started. Locking her bike, she made her way to her first class. History of Literature. It didn’t seem like a hard class to take. What was so important about it, anyway? Sure, she had loved to read, but with the expectation of going through with college, why literature?

She found the classroom in good time (she’d walked her schedule a couple of times over last week), quickly checking in before opening the door. There were a few scattered students listening to their music, most just hunched over phones or notebooks. The room smelled seemingly of old paper with just a hint of marshmallow as Ravel’s Bolero played happily over the speakers.

“Oh, Welcome!” A man greeted her excitedly from his desk, hand hovering over a cassette player seemingly plugged into the computer (somehow), “Please do feel free to find a seat!”

Anathema hadn’t meant to stare, but she definitely wasn’t hiding it. The man sat proudly, clean clothing a complete century behind. He wore rings on one hand and held a teacup in another. But out of all the random little things, that hadn’t been why she was staring. The man’s aura was… well radiant. It was a vivid swirl of bright blue, seemingly shining with light as it burst out of his body. Though it had been alarming (she had never seen anything like it), it was also alarmingly calming. He exuded peace and joy, immediately gaining her trust.

“Is everything alright?” He spoke calmly, brows seemingly weaving together with concern.

Anathema blinked a few times until the aura seemed to fade (normally it’d disappear completely) and apologized, finding her seat.

It took a while before the class could officially start (even then, the professor had waited for the few students that’d lost their way). The man stood up from his desk, writing something on the board. **Professor A. Z. Fell.** He then looked back happily, grabbing a pile of papers and changing the cassette. He stood up tall as he waited the couple seconds of silence before the music began to blare. It started with Giuseppe Verdi’s … Bicycle Race? Without hesitation, he slammed the papers against the desk, ejecting the cassette.

“So _that’s_ where you found it…” He muttered under his breath before returning his gaze to the wave of confused students, “I… Sorry about that! It appears I may have brought the wrong tape record.” He picked the papers back up, gently carding his fingers through the pages to return them to the neat pile they used to be, “So, I guess, welcome to the History of Literature, that’s 2504, Section B, for anyone in the wrong class.” He walked around the classroom, smiling happily as he passed out a syllabus to each, individual student (Since it was more of a niche class, along with a brand new teacher, there were probably no more than 50 students), “I was supposed to prepare an ‘icebreaker,’ as Shakespeare would say, but I’m afraid I may have gotten a bit… er… distracted and may have probably forgotten about that altogether.” Once all the syllabuses (Syllabi? Syllabeople???) were passed out, he returned to the front, standing tall with the remaining paper held gingerly in his arms.

“You can call me Professor Fell.” He continued, motioning happily to the board, “A little bit about me? Well... uh… I used to own a book shop in Soho for quite some time. We closed it down, actually, to move out here to Oxfordshire. I still have the books!” He went on a tangent on how much he loved books (which was fitting, considering his profession), nearly forgetting that he had a class in front of him.

Anathema listened carefully to every word. Surely, there had been a reason Agnus brought her here, right? After 30 minutes of Mr. Fell’s rambling, she began to grow bored. She looked across the room, examining everyone’s aura. A couple chatted in the corner, one brown the other blue, then she looked over two friends (one orange and one yellow) playing ticktacktoe. And then there was a man in front of her, disheveled hair and glasses that carried a slight tilt. His aura was indigo. Everyone else seemed so normal. So why had the Professor’s aura been so intense?

Suddenly the bell rang, and the Professor was pulled from his self-indulgent monologue. He quickly stammered out a few instructions before people started to leave. Anathema had one more class to attend.

The rest of the day was hardly as bizarre.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Crowley is introduced

The second verse was the same as the first. Anathema woke just as early, studied her papers, and rushed out for a bike ride. The sleek Bentley tore through once more, windows slightly open as Queen’s Keep Yourself Alive blasted through the speakers (“You almost RAN HER OVER!” A.Z. Fell would scream further down the road, not quite realizing Anathema was, in fact, his student). 

She arrived at Oxford a bit later than the previous day, having stopped by a coffee shop on the way. She had nearly died two days in a row, and although Agnus hadn’t made any prophecies to tell her so, she’d consider taking the bus from now on.

Her Algebra class had been… unimpressive. Even more so, considering it was _algebra_ . The final class for her day was Theater, which was to take place in the auditorium (most, if not all, college classes were supposed to take place in a lecture hall. The fact that this class was listed as anything else was seemingly influenced by some outside force).

Anathema stepped into the rather large auditorium with five minutes left to spare, approaching the small cluster of students that sat at the front (registration for this class had capped at 30. Ideally, that would be the number of those currently present, but some students tend to ditch class). She looked up to the stage. A man, barely perceivable through the stage curtains, wore sunglasses, chatting casually to some unknown person. Her gaze settled on a familiar man with disheveled hair and glasses that carried a slight tilt. Was this what Agnus was talking about? (Short answer: it wasn’t, but the witch Agnus Nutter had never been precise with her prophecies).

“Hi, I’m Anathema. Anathema Device.” She extended her hand to the stranger, catching him off guard. He watched the hand in near concern, “We share Literature together.” She piped, trying to justify her sudden introduction.

“O-oh I see.” He accepted the hand, closing the notebook he’d been working from, “I’m Newton… er… I guess you could call me Newt. My friends call me Newt… but I guess some of them call be Newton… and we’re not exactly friends, I suppose-“

“It’s nice to meet you, Newt.” Anathema cut him off before he could continue, waiting a moment before withdrawing her hand. She settled into the seat beside him, gathering the supplies she needed for the upcoming class.

He shifted uncomfortable, tapping his fingers against a composition notebook, “I… uh… Pulsifer.” He spoke back up again, “My last name’s Pulsifer. I forgot to tell you.”

She inhaled loudly, gentle eyes meeting one of utter confusion, “Oh, I… your ancestor killed mine a couple centuries back.”

And they didn’t talk the rest of the time, waiting impatiently for class to start.

The Professor wasted no time, bursting through the curtains with gusto, “Ladies, Gentlemen, everything in between, welcome… to the theater!” He struck a far too confident pose, waiting for applause. Newt clapped proudly… before realizing no one else was clapping and quickly stopping. He muttered something under his breath, taking long strides to a pile of mishandled papers.

The man wore an unbuttoned, black blazer with black jeans, red undershirt matching that of the stage curtains. Upon first introduction, he seemed very… extra. He swayed as he walked unnaturally (surely, she figured, this was intentional) with long legs that just barely matched the rest of his body. And sunglasses? Indoors? This man seemed very queer (in far more ways than she initially realized).

“Alright then, just take one down and pass it around.” He handed the first student the pile of papers, making a vague motion before looking directly to Anathema, “Oh, you! I almost ran you over today.” He pointed to her, standing completely upright, “Guess I should apologize, huh?” And them he walked away before anything resembling an apology could leave his mouth.

“Ah, Professor?” A student raised his hand high, trying to get the teacher’s attention.

“Professor.” The man sneered, “That sssounds too posh, please don’t call me that.” Did he… hiss? Surely that wasn’t the case, Anathema considered. 

“Okay Mr… Cowwley.”

The long man sat on the stage, legs hanging over the side as he looked over the syllabus, “Satan’s sake, I forgot to get this spell checked. It’s Crowley.”

“Don’t you mean God’s sa-“

“No, we don’t talk about her in here.”

Newt turned to his neighbor, keeping his voice low, “He’s not… crazy, right?”

Anathema shrugged indecisively, watching Mr. Crowley’s aura. His was far more difficult to focus on. He emitted a very vibrant red. Like Professor Fell’s, the reds flourished in the brightest of lights, but it seemed to be pulled back and forth into his body seemingly like a blackhole (but weaker, since blackholes suck up any and all light… an alternative way to see the aura was that the blazing red light was stronger than the black pit, but that would be considered nonsense). 

“I don’t know.” She resolved, looking down to her notebook where a small, crude sketch of a black car with a jagged-edged man poking his head out the window, winking, “Did you do this?” She pointed to the poorly drawn doodle, receiving an eyebrow raise.

The rest of the class was spent going over the syllabus, and once that was done, the Instructor walked across the room answering questions (“How long have you been teaching?””Oh about… 30 hours now.”) with near reckless abandon.

The bell rang, and Anathema left with haste, pulling out the blue binder as she strolled through the halls.

_Aid the did wed in their work, Anathema, and thee shall findeth thy purpose_

“What does that even mean, Agnus?” She muttered to herself, heedless of her surroundings as she suddenly bumped into someone.

“Are you alright, Miss Device?” A.Z. Fell held out a hand to keep her from falling, eyes falling to the binder. He read the words ‘Ye Saga Continues’ before she held it tight against her chest, “Oh, are you writing a novel?”

She stuttered for a moment before she could find her words, “N-no it’s an… heirloom…” She trailed off, allowing the silence to fill the halls as both seemed to exhibit confusion from her action, “What’ brings you here?”

He motioned to a door, “Well I work here.” Right, a dumb question.

“Sorry then, I’ll leave you be.” She laughed almost uncomfortably, walking past her professor as she continued to her reading.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where an Oscar Wilde quote is not-so-subtly dropped

Third time’s the charm. Anathema began to take the bus in the morning, seating herself next to Newt ( _I have a car_ he’d claim _It’s just hard to find parking_ ) They’d spend the hourlong ride discussing their classes and peer reviewing each other’s essays. Newt was good at math (and supposedly majoring in computer engineering, despite his obvious difficulty with technology) and assist her with linear equations. They two had become real good friends after a few weeks (relationship developing very normal, as any good relationship should).

Professor Fell was enthusiastic about his job, eyes all but twinkling at the thought of wonderful literature. Sometimes he’d even drop everything to read an excerpt with the rawest of emotion (“And this tome was rescued from the Library of Alexandria!”).

And just as strange was Mr. Crowley (“Just Crowley’s alright.”), who’d every-so-often lay out a bunch of scripts on the stage for people to grab at random. For a lecture class, there was definitely a lot of movement. They’ve even done some improv, here and there.

Every experience seemed so inspiring and new… Until she got her most recent essay back.

She felt her heart drop from her chest, fingers nearly curling into the paper. After so many long nights, and rewrite, after rewrite, after rewrite. How could this have happened? How could she allow such a stain across her family name?

How did she get a B?! This was beyond blasphemous! 

Her eyes scanned over every line, carefully analyzing every kind note that the instructor had left between the margins. Agnus hadn’t warned her about this. She was supposed to _excel_!

“Are you alright?” Newt questioned, noticing the frustration in the young witch’s eyes.

“I…” She felt sick to her stomach. It was just a 3,000-word analysis on The Lord of the Flies. How could it have ended so horribly? “I don’t think I’m gonna make it to the bus in time today.” She resigned, putting the paper in her bookbag, “I need to talk to the teacher later.”

Newton Pulsifer saw the flash of the B, unsure where the concern was coming from. He _wished_ he got a B! He had done his analysis on the book American Gods, barely reaching the 2,000-word minimum. But he tried to sympathize, nonetheless. 

As soon as her science class was over, she went out to search for the office. She read and reread a couple prophecies, but Agnus wasn’t helping her at all. Multiple times, it talks about how she was supposed to succeed. So why is she doing so poorly?

The door was cracked open, a quiet conversation taking place. She took a deep breath, knocking on the door. There was a quick rustle before the eventual, “Come in!”

Anathema walked into the room, somewhat stunned upon seeing Crowley in Professor Fell’s office. He sat on the desk, sunglasses pressed in a way that seemed as if they had been rushed on. 

“Oh, Miss Device. What brings you here?” The golden-haired man hastily fixed the sleeves of his unbuttoned outercoat before resting his hands on the desk.

_I want to know how I can fix my essay and get a better grade_ she thought, “My paper.” He ended up saying, trying her best to mask her shame.

Crowley raised a brow at the demand, leaning forward enough to make his tattoo more noticeable, “Kid, we were just about to leave.”

“Oh, don’t mind him!” Professor Fell shooed the man away, “I would be happy to help you out.”

The dramatic theater man watched the other dumbfoundedly before standing up, still somehow maintaining the same weird, inhuman posture outside the classroom, “Oh, I, Uh. Fine. Fine. I guess I’ll just grab something from my office then.” And he strut out. He wasn’t mad in the slightest. Actually, he seemed fairly used to this.

“You two know each other, then?” Anathema joked as she sat herself down, trying to ignore her stresses with a dry laugh.

And the Professor’s eyes lit up with more joy than the feeling he had toward his books (which seemed near impossible), “Why yes, of course! I mean, we are married.” He spoke like a man who’d been swooning over another for the first time, yet seemed to maintain such a casual composure, “So, how can I help you?”

The office wasn’t all too fancy. It was probably the size of a small bedroom and lined with towering bookshelves, filled nearly to the brim with old books (It was whatever didn’t fit inside their home library). There had been nothing notable personal on the desk, unless you count the coffee cup with angel wings (Crowley had one similar, except with a pointed tail and horns, and he’d bring it to class often. They were part of a set).

“I would just like to know what I did wrong.” She pulled the pages from her bag, setting them neatly on the desk.

“Oh, yes!” He picked up the packet, gently flipping through the pages, “This was one of my favorites, you know. You have such a talent for writing.”

_So why didn’t it get an A?!_ “But… what did I do wrong.”

He hummed a gentle note, looking for a specific page, “Well, you tend to overthink the symbolism, and you don’t really take the time to explain them.” He set the packet down to the third page, handing it over, “Right here, you start grasping at straws to introduce a new idea and it just makes the whole essay too wordy.”

They spent a good hour discussing necessary improvements, bouncing off of each other on how the boar’s head was supposed to symbolize Beelzebub, or how the conch was merely a representation of how the children’s society was degrading, or even how the idea that ‘the boys are British because they’re the best society’ was only because the author was British and biased (not that there was a better society. All humans were heathens at heart)

“But otherwise, your writing style is very well developed.” The Professor wanted to finish his mass or criticism on a high note. Not intentionally, in fact it had been out of habit.

Anathema looked over her essay carefully, rereading a few notes she had made for herself, “Alright then, I guess I’ll just have to do better next time.” She resigned herself, slowly standing up and putting everything into her bag.

The older man shifted slightly in his seat, “How about you take the weekend to fix it and I can give you a better grade?” He offered, the most comforting of smiles plastered to his face.

“I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

“Oh, that’s nonsense!” He waved dismissively, fingers tapping carefully against the desk, “What seems to us as bitter trials are often blessings in disguise. You struggled and you learned how to improve. Why should I hold you down when I know you can do better?”

She had tried not to cry. She was a Device after all, and needed to hold up appearances, but this sudden rush of relief had left her dewy-eyed, “Thank you so much.” She spoke quietly, a soft smile complementing her features.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley had returned, spinning a set of keys with his finger (not that he needed keys, mind you, he just liked being that dramatic person to speak with actions rather than words. It was a look that screams “I got papers to grade, let’s go” intermingled with the fondness of, “it’s been a long day. Let’s go home and curl up by the fire”).

“Righty-o.” The blond smiled happily, gathering his things before looking back up to his student, “Do you need a ride home?”

Anathema considered the legalities of the query (which would’ve been illegal, had she been in high school… and in America), then looked over to Crowley, who just shrugged a response, “If it’s not too much trouble.” She responded, unthreatened by the two men.

She sat in the back seat of the Bentley, flipping through her binder once more incase Agnus had any last-minute warnings.

“Would you like to pick the music?” Fell leaned over, handing the young woman a stack of cassettes.

“Not that one, though.” Crowley pulled one from the selection, “’S been in here too long.”

She accepted the cassettes carefully (old enough to know what they are but not quite so that she’d ever had to use them. Had anyone really used cassettes, anymore?) reading through them. Strange, really. None of them had been Queen, yet she’d only ever heard the dulcet tones of Freddie Mercury come out of the Bentley.

“I guess, this one?” She handed them a random tape, having not known any of the artists (except maybe the classics).

“Velvet Underground?” The skinnier man chuckled under his breath, taking the tape from his lover’s hands and putting it into the player.

“Oh, the ‘Bebop.’” The other spoke unconfidently, settling into his seat.

“Angel, nobody calls the Velvet Underground a ‘bebop.’” And almost without fail, the Bohemian Rhapsody started playing, “Oh… guess I left this one in too long too.”

This had all been far too strange for the witch, but she just looked out the window, pretending that nothing strange had happened… then she’d noticed a handprint that clung to the glass and curled into herself, deciding to just look forward.

The Literature Professor had noticed this and quickly waved his hand in utter embarrassment. 

Anathema saw a blue swirl over the print before it disappeared, almost as if it’d had an aura of its own…. Or rather it was the extension of a far powerful aura. She kept looking forward, watching how her professors’ auras mingled with each other. A powerful red, pushing and pulling from his core, intermingling with a blindingly bright cyan. They would swirl together in absolute synchronization, creating sparks of white along the way.

“You two aren’t human, are you?” She’d blurted without thinking. Why did she ask such a stupid question? Of course, they were human! Not that occult creatures didn’t exist, just that she’d never met any before.

But they didn’t answer right away.

“W-what makes you think that?” A.Z. Fell suddenly sputtered, trying to remove suspicion.

“Probably the fact that you miracled the bloody window.” Crowley muttered under his breath, car already driving at 90 kpm.

“What? And risk _other_ questions?”

“There wouldn’t _be_ other questions if you just left it.”

“And there wouldn’t be a problem if you just clean the car proper- LOOK OUT FOR THE PEDESTRIAN!” 

There was no denying their marriage; they bickered like an old couple… and now Anathema was scared for her life, clinging to a safety handle.

They hadn’t spoken for the rest of the ride, two not wanting to answer the question that still hung in the air around them, and the other not wanting to further pry out of fear for her own life. Luckily, it had only been a few minutes (What with the drama man’s reckless driving), and Anathema thanked them and returned to her apartment in a hurry.

It would be a few hours before she realizes that she’d forgotten her binder in the back seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a "my mind is running wild and I need to write it down" kinda project, so I don't really heavily review, so apologies


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where perspectives change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the fluff

Aziraphale enjoyed going to Church, it just had to be the right one. Most churches were far too… stuffy. He didn’t like those people some called ‘Bible thumpers.’ (“That’s not what the bible says!” One would often object, “Oh yes, but the bible has been modified by humans for the past millennia over a thousand times by a thousand different people with different viewpoints, so how could you be so sure it truly is the will of God?” He would respond.) And he didn’t really fit in with the Catholics, mostly because he still remembered the Dark Ages, so he’d frequent a little church just on the other side of town (which was very misleading, since the ‘church’ was held inside a school cafeteria and therefore not on consecrated grounds. Crowley could definitely join anytime, but he refuses due to ‘risk of being in the splash zone’ during very occasional baptisms). The children had been very critical thinkers there too, still happily holding to their faith but headstrong enough to not follow it blindly.

The angel would attend there weekly, even singing in the choir fairly often, which is why Crowley was concerned when he said, “How about we just stay home today?” after opening the back door of the Bentley.

“I thought you liked going.” The demon had already seated himself behind the wheel, looking over his shoulder to see his husband taking careful consideration toward a light blue binder with sticky notes hanging out of the pages.

“Ah, yes, quite.” Aziraphale spoke hastily, rereading the words _Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter Concerning the World That Is to Come, Ye Saga Continues_ already feeling his hands sweating, “Let’s go in, then.” He closed the car door, biscuit tin in one hand and binder in the other, as he headed back to the house.

Crowley left the car in mock frustration (he could never _really_ be mad at his angel), following the other back to their house, “Do you want anything to drink?” He spoke up as he made is way to the kitchen.

“Oh yes, some cocoa would be rather splendid, thank you!” He shouted back, briskly making his way toward the library. 

The library of the occult (and ethereal) beings was two stories high, having the floor between stories removed by some minor miracle. Along every wall were tall, mahogany shelves packed tightly with the majority the hedonistic angel’s massive book and scroll collection (ordered by the Dewey Decimal system, because any other way would be absolutely horrendous). A ladder was held in place by a bar just above the bookcases, wheels at the bottom so the ladder could glide across the wooden floor with ease. In the center of the room two, similar-looking chairs kept close together, one unperceptively softer and the other secretly a recliner. A nightstand stood between them; a lamp perpetually lit on top of it with the warm glow that only an Edison bulb could maintain.

It was the Aziraphale’s happy place.

He sat himself down on the softer chair, gently lifting the binder cover up. He smiled happily at the page protectors (he wouldn’t need to wear those silk gloves for this, which would give him an infinitesimally small amount of time more to read such a long-awaited book. He hadn’t even considered where the first book could possibly be). 

Inside the cover read, ‘Property of Anathema Device. If lost, please contact:’ with a provided phone number. He’d consider giving it a call… later. Now, he needed to read. He closed his eyes, flipping to a random page and reading the first thing he sees.

_Be wary, Angel of prying eyes, for thine cocoa doth scald._

Crowley had returned from the kitchen with a mountain of whipped cream piled high into a mug. The angel happily accepted it, taking a quick sip before the treat would inevitably be forgotten. He whimpered quietly, recoiling as the burning sensation spread across his tongue.

“Careful, it’s hot.” Crowley chuckled to himself, falling not-so-gracefully (which was expected of the demon) into the reclining chair and pulling the lever as his long legs were suddenly elevated.

Aziraphale fanned his hand over his mouth, rereading the prophecy, “How did she know?” He muttered quietly to himself, pressing his tongue into the cold whipped cream as he flipped back to the first page.

\---

Meanwhile, Anathema had been home, working on revising her essay. The whole apartment had been torn apart in her pursuit of the ancient prophecies… and it was nowhere to be found. She was defeated. She hadn’t even considered making a backup quite yet. What would her mother say? She hadn’t even _told_ her mother she’d gotten a whole new batch of prophecies! She was a stain upon the Device family name. 350 years, her family kept the first book safe… and she’d lost the second in a matter of months.

But through her defeat, she still found the will to continue with her assignment. She didn’t want her professors disappointed in her, too.

\---  
Crowley had left the library after a couple hours of sipping strong coffee (even to European standards) and playing games on his cellphone. He decided to inspect the mass of greenery throughout the house, maintaining a menacing posture. 

They were the most beautiful of plants, because Aziraphale would take the time every-so-often to name every plant and give them each individualized complements. It was something Crowley couldn’t do well, not because he was incapable of giving compliments but rather because he’d spent many years putting his plants into submission. Now, if he even considered yelling at a measly succulent, he feared the wrath of his Angel. 

The demon looked over to a Christmas cactus that waited by the front door, decidedly blooming prematurely and smiled happily (though he’d never say them out loud, Crowley had memorized the name of every plant in the house. This one was called Talullah. Then, of course, there was also Edric the money plant that resided in their living area on top of the coffee table, Ida the ivy who has attempted to climb their kitchen window, and Medusa the snake plant. There were so many more, all with purposeful names, throughout the house… but you don’t have time to listen nor do I have time to list). Between the library and the mass array of foliage, they had created their own little slice of Eden.

He would spend a couple more hours tending to the plants indoors before needing to find something else to pass the time. He looked outside, the sun barely beginning to set as thin streaks of pink painted the clouds.

Checking the library, he’d noticed Aziraphale hadn’t moved much since he left. The cocoa, by now, must’ve been sludge as the whipped cream melted into a white gloss over the top. He stepped into the room, watching how his angel remained unwavering. Had they even noticed he’d been there? Probably not.

Crowley stepped behind the chair, glazing over a few words before leaning forward. He wrapped his arms around his warm husband, burying his nose into the mass of golden curls.

“Gonna go to bed.” He spoke softly, enjoying the smell of old books and cocoa that was his angel.

Aziraphale placed a finger against where he’d left off, turning his head upward to place his lips against the other’s cheek, “I’ll be up there in a bit. Let me finish reading.”

The demon returned the sentiment before making his way out of the library. He turned around on his heel, watching his favorite being as they continued to read.

“Aziraphale.” He spoke up after a few moments of pleasant silence, causing the angel to jump as they scrambled to find their spot, looking up at Crowley with a sheepish grin as if he’d missed an important conversation, “I love you.”

Aziraphale’s expression brightened, smile more upturn as his eyes squint ever-so-slightly with absolute fondness and joy, “I love you too, my dear.”

The angle never ended up going to bed that night (nor did he ever call Anathema about the missing binder like he promised himself he would), happily invested in his new book.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where some creative liberties were taken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn’t one of my strongest chapters, so sorry

Crowley woke up to his alarm, eyes squinted open as he stared at the ceiling. His phone had probably blared for 5 minutes before he pressed snooze. Then he realized his mistake and quickly opened his phone to turn the alarm straight off. The light was far too bright for his snake eyes, so he fixed it quickly before slamming his phone into the mattress. He was hardly a ‘morning person’ (and some would argue that he wasn’t a noon or even night person either, not only because he was seemingly sour throughout the whole day, but because he was in fact a demon and, by nature, not quite a person). So he struggled out of bed, sauntering down the stairs to find Aziraphale still in the library.

The angel sat still seemingly unwavering, conjured notebook beside him. He’d spent the whole night copying and taking notes on the contents of the binder. He’d been stuck on the exact meaning of the final prophecy. 

“Doin’ alright, Angel?” The demon has already been leaning against the chair, eyes glancing briefly over the mass of notes.

Aziraphale was caught off guard, quickly looking over to a distant widow. The sun _was_ setting, right? “I’m so sorry, my dear boy, I must’ve gotten distracted.” He set his pen down, leaning his head against his husband’s shoulder.

Crowley just shrugged, heavy head resting ontop of the other, “Did you copy the whole thing?”

He nodded, flipping through the pages, “Well, I do have to return it… and Agnus mentions Angels and Demons a bunch of times, so I don’t think she would mind….. I am quite perplexed by the last one, though.”

The demon looked over the more recent notes, reading Agnus Nutter’s final prophecy (out of 1,873). 

_Wise men nay pursue the Devil's tail. Though through 700 s'rrows, may thee findeth peace f'r the blood of mineth._

“She uses such flowery language,” Aziraphale waved a hand in the air, unable to take his eyes off the words, “but this one is different to the rest.”

Crowley didn’t really care… but Aziraphale cared, so of course the demon was absolutely invested. His freshly awaken brain scanned the words as he masked his desperation to make the love of his eternity happy, “What’s 700?” He spoke slowly, knowing what he was trying to say but not quite able to express it in words.

“That’s what I’m trying to understand, I-“

“No no no no no.” He pointed at the page, “This one’s a-thousand-and-whatever. What’s 700?”

The angel’s eyes seemed to sparkle in sudden realization as he flipped the pages fervently, “Here we go. Prophecy 700: This lodging beest false.”

“It might be a number game.” The demon motioned to the notebook, pointing at the last half of the many confusing words, “Replace the ‘700 sorrows’ with… well that, then ‘s a matter of solving for the first half.”

“Crowley, you’re brilliant!” The angel chuckled to himself, jotting a few notes down, “So then we just need to find the ‘wise men’ and ‘devil’s tail!’”

Crowley was very proud of himself (even his fellow demons never call him brilliant), “Yeah yeah, tell the world why don’t ya.” He chuckled under his breath, running his fingers through soft, golden curls, “Take a brake and start getting ready for work.”

\---

Anathema took her time to leave her apartment the next day, trying hard to ignore the existential dread that came with carelessly losing your family’s legacy. I mean, come on! Who does that?

Newton waited patiently on the bus, waiting for his friend. As she lumbered through the walkway, and collapsed into the seat beside him, he noticed the bags that formed under her eyes. Was she still upset about the B? He wanted to ask, but she just immediately closed her eyes. Was he expected to comfort her? He just remained quiet for the rest of the ride, waking her up once they’d reached the university.

On a normal day, they’d take the extra half hour to walk around campus… But Anathema didn’t want that. Instead she went to the empty classroom, leaving her finished essay on the table before propping her head in both hands, silently wallowing in self pity. 

“Ah, Miss Device? You’re here rather early.” The professor had strolled in, carefully closing the door behind him as he walked over to the young witch, “I found this in the car. Thought you would want it back.”

Anathema looked over the familiar blue binder in disbelief, gently running her fingers over the front. Now, she was a Device. Devices don’t cry, they were a headstrong breed of professional decendents. She was just… no, she was most definitely crying.

“O-oh, I… uh…” Fell hadn’t expected the tears, not quite knowing what to do. He lowered his hand, a box of tissues suddenly appearing before he set them down beside the binder.

“I’m sorry.” She spoke quietly, pressing her palms against her eyes, “I just never thought I’d see it again.”

The man wasn’t at all use to the crying students (this was his first semester as a professor after all. He still didn’t realize it was something he needed to be used to), and looked desperately around the otherwise empty room in a vain attempt to make it stop. Food, that’s it! Food always helped him whenever he felt sad! He reached into his satchel, pushing away the papers to pull out a tartan-patterned tin.

Anathema gazed down at the open tin, teary eyes watching the shortbread cookies (though, here in England they were definitely called biscuits). She’d never been a stress eater, but she looked up at her cheery professor (who was particularly proud of his decision) and took one, “Thank you.” She muttered quietly, running a hand over her eyes to ward off any remaining grief.

The professor smiled happily, a slight wiggle in his shoulders, “Well, you are quite welcome!” He chuckled, sliding the revised essay away from her and strolling proudly to his desk. 

The witch became herself once more, instinctively opening the binder as if her destiny had depended on it. She scanned the still well-kept pages, eyes falling to the little notes the professor had added.

‘We could use a student aid, next semester :)’ He’d left beside _Prophecy 666: Aid the did wed in their work, Anathema, and thee shall findeth thy purpose_

\---

“Mr. Fell?” Anathema had knocked on her professor’s door the next day, cradling a small stack of books in her arms.

A.Z. Fell looked up from his book, “Ah, Miss Device!” He set his story down, opening the drawer to his desk, “I have your paper right here.”

“Oh no, that’s… not why I’m here.” She smiled softly, fingers tracing over tiny sigils against the door frame. She’d ask about it later.

He pulled out the papers anyway, figuring she’d still want to see it later, “Well then why don’t you have a seat?” He motioned to the seat infront of him clasping his hands together.

The witch humbly accepted the offer, glacing at her essay to see the perfect 100% (twice circled with a smiley face beside it), “You’re not human.” She spoke matter-of-factly, placing the books into her lap.

The professor settled further into his chair, brows knitting together, “I’m not sure how you’ve gotten such an id-“

“Aziraphale.” She smiled to the much older man, gently placing a small booklet onto the desk (she’d found it stuffed into the theology section of the library), “Or Ezrafell, or Aziraphael. The guardian angel reported by many, from Michelangelo to Oscar Wilde.”

Aziraphale conceded, figuring he could trust the decendent of Agnus Nutter “Oh I’m hardly a guardian an… they wrote a book about me?” He picked up the book, flipping through a few pages.

Anathema smiled, looking down to the other book in her lap, “My… ancestor’s prophecies are really important to my family, and I was really upset when I lost it.” She ran her fingers over the worn letters, hands shaking a bit, “I think Agnus would want you to have this.” She wavered a bit, handing the tome to the kind angel.

He sat there with mouth agape, carefully receiving the book. _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnus Nutter, Witch_ , “I… I’m flattered, but I couldn’t possibly…” He trailed off. After reading over the second installment, Aziraphale wanted nothing more that to even breathe the same air as the original… but he also knew how much the book had meant to Anathema.

She merely shook her head, letting go of the 350 year old book, “All the prophecies are spent.” She spoke softly, trying to hide her hesitance (in her whole life, she’d never actively handed the Device legacy to anyone outside her family), “I don’t need it, and you seem to have an interest, so I could think of no one better to hold onto it.” 

“I would be honored to.” The angel beamed, the strongest wave of calm emminating from his aura. He flipped to a random page, looking over the first few words.

_Prophecy 700: They belief in the duty of relief and the relief of duty._

Anathema looked over, following the words he’d seemingly became trained on, “That one’s about the Holocaust.” She spoke confidently, “It was a warning about Hilter.”

Aziraphale was unsure of this, mind focusing on Agnus’s ‘700 sorrows.’


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where it's used as more husband fluff because I just can't right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These wonderful gays consume my life and I just keep writing and I don't want to expand this chapter because I keep telling myself just a little bit at a time, because as a reader I love short chapters, but as a writer I keep saying MoaR PLz!

“Crowley, do you know Numerology?” Aziraphale looked up from his mass of notes one afternoon, reaching over to the phone to lower the volume of the music (that somehow had miraculously great speakers, all things considered).

Crowley had a hand in the iPhone. Actually no, he had _invented_ the iPhone and then Steve-FUCKING-Jobs had to take the whole idea out from under him (he wasn’t salty at all). The original design had been a lot sleeker and more beautiful, and to get revenge the demon had snuck into the company to screw everything up. He made the speakers scratch and added just a little bit of weight to make the monstrosity to help it further resemble a brick. And it still ended up making a lot! Ever since then, he’d pop in to give the company some bad ideas (“What if, and here me out, we get rid of the headphone jack…. And then the buttons?”). He also ‘helped’ make a bunch of the more distracting apps, like Candy Crush and Pokémon Go (which he was especially proud of, up until Niantic decided to go behind his back and make the game so fun that everyone seemed to forget how infuriating it was… And now he was hooked. He may have placed a Stop at their house with the picture of the statue of the demon and angel… wrestling.)

“Numerology’s a scam, Angel.” The demon tapped his long fingers against the screen, finally catching that Aerodactyl he needed for his quest.

“Surely I have a book, somewhere.” The angel muttered under his breath, standing up to examine the walls of stories.

“Just look it up.” Crowley barely glanced up before continuing his game. He wanted his husband to know he was listening, but he also wanted to catch the many colorful animals that surrounded his house.

“I don’t think ‘Gaggle’ is too fond of me.”

“It’s Google, Aziraphale.” 

But Aziraphale didn’t care, plump fingers hooking to the ladder as he slowly slid it across the shelves.

“For fuck’s sa- Hey, Siri.” He rest his head against his shoulder, waiting for the phone to respond.

The Angel, more confused than ever, brought his entire focus to his demon, “Who the blazes is Siri?!” 

Crowley rolled his eyes, not answering as he pulled up a site, “What’re you tryin to find?”

Aziraphale walked back to his seat, running a finger over his notes, “I am fairly certain that ‘the devil’s tail’ is 666, assuming it’s a ‘number game,’ as you put it.” He hummed quietly to himself, “I wonder if the ‘wise men’ is referring to a number that means wisdom.”

The angel had made it his project to decipher all of Agnus Nutter’s prophecies (and he now how two sources to pull from), spending nearly every night in obsessive note taking. Most of them at least made relative sense, keeping in mind that some aren’t supposed to make any logic until it’s needed, and the witch’s final prophecy had somehow seemed to draw him.

“Four.” The demon spoke up after some brief research, quickly returning to his game. He had an Ekans to catch.

“Four.” Aziraphale repeating, chewing on the back of his pen as he flipped through the pages.

It’d been an hour before the angel figured it out as he scanned the words over and over. Was this right though? Crowley hovered over them (having been pacing for a while- definitely not to hatch his eggs) reading the words for himself.

“Alright, then.” The demon shrugged, placing a hand on his husband’s shoulder, “You ready to take a break, now? It’s getting late, and I dunno about you, but I’d like to get some rest before work.”

Aziraphale read and reread the words carefully. They made sense, but how could he be so sure the code had been cracked properly.

“I guess some rest could do me good.” He resigned, taking great care to set the book down carefully on the side table.

Crowley grabbed onto both hands, pulling his angel from their seat and escorting them to the bedroom.

_Wise men* nay pursue the Devil’s tail**. Though through 700 s’rrows***, may thee findeth peace f’r the blood of mineth_

*Book 2, Prophecy 444: To sir whom school wit from forgotten stores and sir whom weareth black spectacles to hedeth his s’rpentine behold.  
**Book 1, Prophecy 666: Mine decent blindly follow words of olde.  
***[Though] Book 1, Prophecy 700: They belief in the duty of relief and the relief of duty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey fam, I wanted to let you know that I do have a [passion project](https://www.wattpad.com/story/188071293-projectile-industries) that I'm using this fic to take a break from. It's a scifi/fantasy that's going to have a lot of action with a couple LGBT+ themes peppered in, and I figured I'd just do a shameless plug for whenever I end up getting back to it. I have the preface and 1st chapter done. The 2nd is still in the "critical editing phase™" and will probably be posted shortly after my GOmens enthusiasm stops taking over my entire life.

**Author's Note:**

> I needed a break from my regular writing (because one can only write so much action) and kinda settled on spending some time on fanfiction. I'm not really going to do thorough checks on this, since it's not anything professional, but I'm most likely going to spend a lot of my summer on this side project.


End file.
